Assassin's Pride
by jindouji
Summary: Desmond has spent several months on the Animus for reasons unknown. Why are the researchers being so persistent for this data? Soon Desmond will have the unfortunate advantage of knowing. Cursing, crude humor, parody/satire. Altair bashing, with love.


This is a collaboration between Chojutsuka and Jindouji after several hours of Assassin's Creed gameplay. After said amount of time, we felt the need to vent our frustration; though we both feel the game is a marvelous wonder on the PS3, some parts beg the need to ask WHY? Together we put down some of our more humorous moments (yes, these events do have a real reference) thrown in with some of our own witty dialogue.

A humourous parody of the _real_ reason Desmond has been working for researchers of the Animus. Cursing, adult themes, crude humor - all the fun stuff. Some homosexual referencing to Altair and Desmond, may be considered offensive. If your ancestors were gay, is it safe to assume that you would be too? Just to be funny, not to hurt feelings.

* * *

"_Altair you homo. I need to speak with you…"_

That's how it all started. Rather, it started a few days ago, when he was abruptly bashed over his head while he was sleeping, bound and gagged, then his own pillowcase was used to cover his head.

_That's_ how it all started.

* * *

"Desmond, you ass! I told you to get in here and start the holographic session already. You can jack off to your dirty magazines later when I've probed your brains out for things you've never done!" The doctor threw his arms up in the air as the door to his office opened. "Lucy! See if you can sway this gay-wad into getting onto the piece of shit contraption of yours."

"I'm up already dammit, and I don't know how many times I have to tell you, I'm NOT GAY!"

"Sir, I don't think it's possible for _me_ to persuade him if he's homosexual…That would be more your forte…"

"SHUT UP!" Desmond buried his head under the pillow in a vague effort to drown out the sound, or a pitiful attempt at committing suicide. One more 'probing session' and the good doctor would be able to certify him 'clinically insane'.

…Who in their right mind made their patients sleep on a stainless steel bed, anyway?

"DESMOND! Ass meet table. Table, ass!" The 'good' doctor gestured at the prototype machine as the unfortunate prisoner trudged into the room.

"God, I reek! Can you at least give me a change of clothes or something?" Picking at the collar of his hoody he sniffed lightly before curling his nose in disgust. "Ugh."

"It is not our fault that you have no sense of hygiene." The doctor stood looking out the large bay windows of their hidden office space, his hands clasped calmly behind his back.

"Maybe my personal hygiene wouldn't be in question if you'd give me some space once in a while." The cynicism dripping from his words could have drenched the Sahara.

"You have all the space you could ever need. You are the only person who inhabits this level when we leave." Lisa's calm voice and slight smile was a relief from the old codgers annoying personality. "The cameras are here purely for your protection."

An unpleasant snort broke the temporary reprieve. "Perhaps entertaining fantasies of strange people watching you while you shower will give you the inspiration you need. Just picture them as hot hunky men instead of Bert the ninety-year-old security guard."

"Stop making allusions to my orientation. _I am not GAY_!" Trying to shake off the mental images of Bert watching him through black and white monitors he folded his arms against his chest in defiance.

"_Gentlemen_, must we have the same argument every morning?" Lucy calmly pressed a series of commands into the console doing a good job of hiding her annoyance.

"Every morning it's 'get on the animus, get on the animus'!" Desmond crowed his interpretation of the old man. "With the amount of stuff I do, you would think I deserve an inch of respect!" Flailing his arms around, he was on the verge of almost whining. For a month he'd been doing god only knows how many missions on the damn machine while the two scientists recorded the things he did. The stupid thing would even lock up, forcing them to restart the damn contraption while he floated in blue mid-space. At least he got to throw daggers though…

"Actually the name of the virtual assistant is enimus."

Desmond stopped his tirade and gawked. "What?"

"Enimus. It stands for 'Electronic Numerical Isotope Modifier: Uninhibited Stasis'."

Desmond blinked.

"It means while you lay there, we fuck with your brain." The doctor's face grew red with each passing word, until the internal bomb exploded. "DESMOND! Will you just get your retarded, inbred, mother-fucking ass into the goddamn fucking machine and get to fucking work!!!

Desmond bounded to the enimus and flopped on the table. His face looked like that of a deer caught in headlights.

"Better." The old fart smoothed his collar down and clasped his hands behind his back. "Now, access your memories."

Desmond grumbled, still fuming with the pathetic situation he was in. God, he would do anything to be home watching football right now. He tilted his head through the various stimulations that he already completed resting on one grouping of blue lines that remained darkened. It said something underneath it, but the writing was too small to make out.

He sighed as he felt his consciousness being extracted into the enimus for the billionth time, wondering why he never felt the urge to go to the bathroom until just that moment. He also wondered why he never jabbed a pen into the old dude's eye, just for the pure satisfaction of it.

Some things could never be answered.

* * *

"All-tye-eer, you _homo_…are you even listening to me?"

Desmond could feel for his ancestor, often jammed into similar unwanted situations.

"I'm listening, old man." Altair swaggered over to the Assassin's Guild desk, "I just chose not to lower my standards by speaking to you."

Altair was cool in Desmond's book.

"And that, my friend, is why you are known far and wide as a homo. That is why you are an _ass-ass-in_."

"Just tell me what I need to do."

"The same thing you always do my friend, besides all the raping and pillaging; collect information about the man you need to kill, then kill him. Wipe the feather in his blood – which I am assuming belongs to your intended victim and not some random bum off the street, all the while trying not to ass-rape every hot man you see along the way."

Ignoring the copious amounts of insults, Altair snatched the baggie from the table and peered at the contents. A feather, a few daggers, and hashish – all important items for his purpose. "Name?"

"Aswad. Hassam Benlaid Aswad."

"Where can I find him?" The small bag vanished in to deep pocket concealed in the assassins' robes.

"He is hidden deep with in the bowels of a sect that one of the informants stumbled across." The old man paced back and forth recounting what little information had been gathered on the notorious man. "He seems to be a very influential person with sway over a few particular high standing aristocrats, one of which I hear is a powerful commander with a legion of Templar knights at his disposal. As of such, both men can rapidly become quite a hassle for us in the future."

"I understand." Shuffling his feet slightly, his eagerness to decipher this new mystery was getting the best of him. The feeling nestled like a viper in his stomach, churning with the urge to strike at another corrupt soul. For Al Muhalim… and for justice, and to get the old geezer off his back for a change.

It was bad enough that the lost all of his more useful tools at his disposal to the crotchety old man he called master…why he called him that, he wasn't sure; no one else did, so he was only left to wonder. Slowly his items were returned, though not entirely fast enough. During his first mission he thought that he would have to kill the target with a large spit-wad carefully crafted from hay stolen from the convenient cart abandoned in the middle of town.

"You may do whatever the hell you do here before a mission, just don't do it in my presence; I may have to bludgeon myself to death after witnessing such travesties of gayness." The guild manager shooed the assassin away like an irritating insect before retuning to his filing.

Altair climbed from the roof, grumbling to himself about the guild members that they posted at these cities. None of them respected him in the least, though he was sure that he could dissect them on a whim. Luckily for him he could take his frustrations out on the poor unfortunate soul the guild appointed as a threat.

A smirk spread across his face, dampened only slightly by the trek he made up the wall of the guild headquarters. Honestly, why did they have to use the _roof_? It's not like anyone couldn't look in the window to see what was going on.

Jumping down from the building, he quickly got his bearing, thanks to the digital map the enimus projected on his field of vision. That didn't help him much with the huge scads of people meandering about the town, apparently no purpose but to wander the streets. Slowly he made his trek to the first closest destination, meanwhile fighting the inability to focus.

"Like what you see?" A street vendor winked in Altair's direction, the assassin almost rushing headlong over to the hot man behind the counter. _Hell yeah I do! _

_Concentrate on the mission at hand, Altair, er, I mean Desmond. GAH! Why am I talking to myself again?!_ _Deep breath._ _Okay rationalize here, these are not my thoughts. I can chalk this up to, whoa hello there, hot stuff_. He had to consciously correct his feet as his eyes followed a particularly hunky looking thug walking past him.

"OOF!" Earthenware crashing to the ground shook him soundly. "Did you not see me? You should be more careful, you could have killed me!"

Altair appreciated his low hanging hood as he could not keep his eyes from rolling. True death could have graced her unfortunate life and she would have been dead before she fell to the ground, had he felt so inclined.

With a sigh for his unfortunate circumstances, he recovered quickly, lacing his fingers together before his chest. Praying… Praying… Look at the priest who was so busy communicating with Allah that he accidentally bumped into someone. He could feel the sweat gathering between his fingers as the guards scowled in his direction. Gradually their hands slid from their swords, eyes resuming their lazy scan of the crowd. Swearing quietly under his breath he walked as fast as he dared to the nearest alley way.

Dropping his counterfeit act he resumed his hurried pace through the crowded town. His thoughts were dashed yet again as a commotion caused his attention to turn toward a group of soldiers harassing a helpless woman. His eyes rolled yet again when he realized the enimus had indicated that he should help the individual.

He couldn't help but wonder if this were completely necessary. Helping some, assassinating others…wasn't this two sides of the same coin? Ah, whatever… as long as he got to chuck very pointy daggers at somebody.

"Mon dieu! Omelet du fromage!" Somebody yelled.

_Da fuck?_

Desmond communicated to the two scientists viewing the memory playback as he fought the onslaught of attackers. "Why the hell are they speaking funny?"

"The enimus is trying to associate different languages so you understand them."

"Is that why he's speaking about 'cotton balls' in French as he's trying to kick my ass?! It doesn't make any sense!"

"Mort au homo! Oeufs et lard fume!"

"What the hell is this retard saying?!" Desmond yelled as Altair parried an attack, countering by back-fisting the soldier in the face then horizontally stabbing the blade into the weak spot in the armor. The white tunic swordsman jumped upright again, cursing and spraying blood.

"C'était simplement une blessure superficielle! Cône de la circulation!"

"God, er Allah, why won't he die already?! That's it! I'm getting the hell out of here!" Slapping his sword into its sheath, he turned tail and fled, screaming all the way.

"Les enfant terrible!" The Crusader pointed after Altair, while bolstering a crew of soldiers.

"Dammit, this is moronic!" Running as fast as he could, he tried to distance himself from the crazed Frenchman. _What the hell does that lady during the loading screen say to do when being chased by hostiles?_ He hung a left cursing as he ran though a group of pot carriers._ Fruit stalls! That's what she said! _Spotting a vulnerable target he lined himself and dived though the crowded stall…right into a patrol of guards.

"ASSASSIN!"

"DAMMIT!" _I know! I have to break the line of sight! _Bowling his way through the disorientated soldiers he made a break for a weathered building. Launching himself at the wall he managed to find a precarious hold, fingers gripping loose stone.

Finger strength people – finger strength. All nine digits.

Until he fell flat on his ass.

He managed a guttural sound as the air whooshed out of his lungs. Altair struggled upright fueled by his intense desire to get away from the surmounting armor clad assholes. Time seemed to pass slowly as he righted himself and sprinted up the wall again, this time narrowly avoiding the next boulder tossed in his direction.

"FUCKERS! Stop with the rock chucking!" he commented over his shoulder as he flipped onto the rooftop, determined to outrun the annoying buggers.

After a heart-racing chase scene reminiscent of a movie that Desmond had recently seen, he seen his potential hiding spot, the blue curtains blowing in the wind. Heading full speed he didn't even pause for the patrolling archer poised to speak at the advancing man in white.

"You should not be up – oof!" The guard began his prattle as Altair made no attempt to stop, bowling the man over and sending him to an untimely demise below. Jumping into a convenient stall with draperies lining it, he cowered until the squad lost interest. Several minutes passed as he listened to more random French-speak; something about staples and dog bones.

Finally after what seemed like forever, the team disbanded, jumping off of the building willy nilly. Slowly, the assassin crawled from his hiding place, not even bothering to wipe the dust from his jacket. Peering over the edge, he decided that it was safe to drop down here.

His boots made a soft thud on the earth, a few bystanders gasping in surprise at this landing. It was no matter; he was happy that he could finally return to the mission at hand; nothing daunted his determination.

As he rounded a corner, he froze. A man was kneeling over a pile of what seemed like another person, crumpled and bleeding on the ground. Altair briefly wondered what could've caused the incident, since he was no where near the area and the target was not an attempted assassination. He was only left to ponder this for a few seconds, since the man checking the other promptly looked up and upon locking eyes with Altair screamed at the top of his lungs. "ASSASSIN!"

He was never going to get to the mission, he thought, racing yet again across the city.


End file.
